


a different kind of ritual

by trophygoth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Unexpected feelings, also this is absolutely irrelevant to this fic but jon is 5'2 and martin is like 6'1. thanks., god themself told me so, jon thinks martin is beautiful, martin and jon are both jewish and so are melanie and daisy, set roughly just before 115, this is honestly...entirely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trophygoth/pseuds/trophygoth
Summary: Jon manages a weak smile, trying to ignore the swooping feeling inside."Alright," he says.Oh, hell, he thinks.Martin finally realizes that Jon is Jewish too, and invites him over for Shabbat.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 13
Kudos: 236





	a different kind of ritual

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to reference the transcripts as much as possible but I'm gonna be honest. I listened to the whole podcast in less than a week so I may have gotten some timeline details mixed up. I saw that there were a couple people drawing Martin with a kippah and decided that Jon, also, is Jewish, and subsequently sat down and wrote nearly 4000 words about it in like six hours.

It’s not that he didn’t know Martin was Jewish. It’s hardly something he could have missed, considering he always wears his yarmulke. Well, _a_ yarmulke, anyway. He seems to have several, and he wears them in conjunction with a jumper that at least complements the design on it — if it doesn’t actually legitimately match.

And Jon isn’t exactly hiding the fact that this is something they have in common, although _clearly_ Martin is on far better terms with God than he is. (The last time he had even set foot in a temple was after his grandmother had died. He remembers the mourner’s kaddish feeling heavier than it had when he was a child. Before that, it had been several years at the very least. The most he does these days is have some bread and wine on Fridays if he can be bothered.) But all the same — there’s something in him that’s slightly resistant to the idea of telling Martin. Even after their… heart-to-heart during Jane Prentiss’s attack, even after everything they’ve been through, it still feels like it’s. Well. Too personal, maybe. Like if Jon allows Martin to know him that well — he doesn’t know, exactly. (But he does know that nothing good can come of that.) 

He’s never excelled at letting other people in, even before his proximity to others was… well, actively harmful. It’s one of the reasons Georgie had broken up with him, back in uni. The idea of other people being close to him, of other people understanding the intrinsic truths of exactly who Jonathan Sims is, has always made him feel… itchy. (Not the same way his skin had itched while healing from his worm injuries, but a different, deeper type of itch. Like the kind that makes the hair on the nape of his neck prickle when he feels The Eye watching him.) 

But all the same. He’s not been hiding it, simply deeming it as irrelevant to their jobs. There was no reason for that to come up in the workplace — it’s not as though he’s had the time to chat about religion in between all the kidnapping and the trying to save the world. 

Until now, that is.

And it’s funny, really, because he hadn’t meant to say anything. But when he hears Martin and Melanie lamenting the season changing, how _Christmas-y_ everything is sure to become very soon — when _really_ , Martin says, Chanukah is better because it’s longer, and the food is way better anyway — he lets out a soft chuckle, startling both of them.

Melanie looks over to where he stands, a statement in hand. “Let me guess, you’re an avowed atheist who hates religion, yeah?” He does not miss the hardness in her voice, the hot fury that never seems to leave her eyes whenever she looks at him. She’s never really been his biggest fan, but lately — no matter.

“Ah, no, actually.” He pauses, debating whether to simply leave it at that. His gaze goes back to the file in his hands. “Being Jewish myself, I fully empathize with the… holiday irritation.”

He almost winces as he sees Martin’s hurt expression out of the corner of his eye. Almost regrets that he’d never even mentioned it. But, well, there’s nothing to be done about it now.

“What, th- this whole time? And you never said?” 

“Longer, actually.”

“What?”

He almost can’t help the ghost of a smile. “Since birth. Which, unless you’ve known me longer than I’ve known you…”

A pause.

Then, Martin’s incredulous voice, “Was that — was that a _joke_?”

“You know, no matter how many times I make them, you always seem to be surprised.” 

Martin looks like he’s about to say something else, when Melanie hums. “Y’know, it’s funny that Georgie never said.”

Jon doesn’t particularly like the way this conversation seems to be going — deeper into his past, into who he is. So he stiffly replies, “Yes, well, I don’t know that we ever actually discussed it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

And he snaps the file closed and stalks off to his office. That’s that. End of conversation.

* * *

Except it’s not really, is it, because Martin doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. Always worrying, always _fussing_ in that way he has.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at the knock on his door the next afternoon, at the way Martin anxiously offers him tea. The way he clearly has something to say.

Jon takes a sip of his tea, eyes closing for a moment — somehow Martin always gets it exactly right — and then turns his gaze back to see him worrying at the hem of his jumper. “Alright, Martin. What do you want?” He’s careful to moderate his voice, to make sure that he’s not compelling him accidentally. People don’t tend to like when he does that.

“Oh! Ah, um, I was just — well, I just thought… Listen, what are you doing Friday evening?”

Jon coughs, having inhaled a bit of his tea. “S- sorry?”

There’s a panicked flush and Martin replies quickly, almost tripping over himself to do so. “No! Not like — ah, no, I just meant — well, I was just, um —”

It’s Jon’s turn to flush, if only slightly, and he runs a hand through his hair before clearing his throat as a way of interrupting Martin’s stammering. “Right. My apologies for… misinterpreting. Is there, er, something happening Friday that requires me to be there?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, not — not as such, no, but I was just… wondering if you would, um. Like to come over to maybe… _celebrateshabbatwithme_.” His words run together, and he looks pointedly at the desk, refusing to even glance at Jon.

He stares. “What?”

“Well, Melanie’s come over, and — and even Daisy has, and —” his voice has taken on an odd defensive tone that Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. “Well, you just never told me that you were Jewish too!”

Ah. That’s what this is about. Because of course it is. He reaches to the back of his neck, scratching it awkwardly. “Well, no, I just… didn’t see that it was relevant, I suppose.”

Silence. Then, “Well, n- no, I guess it isn’t relevant, not… not really. I just — I thought we were…” And he trails off, leaving Jon to wonder what, exactly, Martin thought they were. “Look, if you don’t want to come, you can just tell me, you know.”

“No! No, that’s — that’s not it, Martin. It’s just that I’ve not, well. It’s been a while.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“So d’you — I mean, would you like to?”

Jon pauses, looks at Martin. Takes it all in — the offer, the obvious nervousness he feels, the faint flush that he’s not quite managed to make go away. Something sort of shifts in his chest, soft and warm. “You know what, Martin? I think… I think I would.”

And Martin smiles back, wide and pleased, his whole face lighting up. “Excellent! I’ll, er. I’ll just, let you get back to work then, shall I? Let me know if you, um. If you need anything, okay Jon?”

Jon manages a weak smile, trying to ignore the swooping feeling inside. 

“Alright,” he says.

_Oh, hell_ , he thinks. 

* * *

The rest of the week passes mostly without incident, although every time Martin brings him tea, or tries to talk to him, Jon ends up going quiet and awkward. He tries to ignore that, every time he clears his throat, mentioning really having to get back to work, there’s a small, slightly disappointed look on Martin’s face as he says “oh, of course, alright.”

He hates that look. And moreso, he hates that he hates that look. Mostly because he thinks he would probably be willing to do nearly anything to make it go away, to turn it back to the wide grin that lights his face with pleasure. And that’s… concerning. 

Not the least of which is because he’s got… a lot going on, what with the whole “trying to save the world” thing. And he’s not sure that really leaves much room for figuring out… whatever it is that he’s feeling for Martin. About Martin.

He thinks probably he should have realized sooner just how pleasant Martin is to be around. It feels like he’s changed, lately — but no, that’s not quite right, is it? It’s not that he’s changed, really, but it seems that he’s starting to become more… himself, lately. Like he’s just begun to actually feel comfortable enough to just be… who he is.

And Jon rather thinks he likes who Martin is.

Which is, frankly, fairly nerve-wracking.

This whole situation is more stressful than it probably should be, especially when Martin stops by his office early Friday afternoon, a tight smile on his face.

“Listen, Jon — do you… have a moment?”

Jon’s heart starts to beat an uncomfortable rhythm against his ribs. “Ah, yes, I was just — I’ve just found a statement I was going to read later, so currently I’m… er, free. What is it?”

Martin sits down stiffly in the chair in front of the desk and takes a breath. “I’m… sorry.”

He stares for a moment, confused, before asking, “Whatever for?”

“Well, I, I feel like I sort of… pushed you. In- into coming tonight, that is. If I’d… known, that I would make you uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have said anything. You don’t — you know you don’t have to come, right?” His eyes are all at once pleading and apologetic, and Jon has to laugh, a short, incredulous laugh.

“Where did you get the idea that I was uncomfortable? I did say I wanted to, didn’t I?”

Martin takes a breath, as if stocking up air for what he’s about to say. “Well, y- yes, you did, but since then you’ve sort of… been… distant? Like you’re upset with me, and I’ve wracked my brains and the only thing I can think of that I’ve done is invite you to Shabbat, and you hadn’t _actually_ been all that interested, and —”

“Martin.”

“Y- yes, Jon?”

“I _want_ to come. I’m…” He sighs. Clearly his anxiety was noticed and… obviously misinterpreted. Which, really, isn’t anyone’s fault but his own. “I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve simply been… stressed, I suppose. Everything is… a lot, lately. But no, I’m not uncomfortable at the idea of celebrating Shabbat with you.”

Which technically isn’t a lie, really. It’s more his own feelings that he’s uncomfortable with, but that’s hardly Martin’s fault.

Well, not purposely, anyway. Martin lets out a relieved breath and smiles. And yes, Jon is certain now that he would do nearly anything for that wide, joyful smile. For the way it lights up his entire face, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners ever so slightly —

“Oh! Right — yeah, no, that makes sense. The stress of it all is… getting to us all, I think. But if — if you’re sure about…”

“Yes, of course. I’m absolutely certain, Martin.”

“All- alright, then! Um, should we head over t- to my place together after work, or —?”

“Ah, yes, that would… probably make the most sense, wouldn’t it?”

Martin looks down, almost uncomfortably, and Jon realizes the way that came off, and feels… well, bad, honestly, but he doesn’t know how to apologize for it and correct himself without making things… awkward. So instead he clears his throat and gives a smile. “Besides, that will give us time to talk. On the way. If you… wanted.” A wince. Emotions and the subtlety thereof have never really been his forte. “Ah, not that we couldn’t — couldn’t talk _now_ , if you… wanted. If there was something to, er, talk about.”

Luckily Martin seems to realize what it is that Jon is trying to do, and he nods and gives a small laugh. “N- no, I think we’re, er. I think we’re good here, now. Um. So I’ll just —” he stands and looks to the door — “I’ll just, be going, and then I’ll come by once I’m ready to go home, and then we can, er. Go.” A moment of awkwardness, and then, “I hope you’ll be hungry, because I’ve got stuff for dinner. So, um. See you then.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Jon staring at the door after him.

There’s a spot in his chest that softens, because — well, as silly as it sounds, because Martin knew that Jon would still be working in his office when it was time to leave. It’s something so… small, so meaningless, really. And yet, all the same, Jon finds his face slightly warmed as he continues to look at the door.

* * *

“— It definitely sounds like The Stranger, but… I don’t know. I don’t... _think_ this has anything to do with the Unknowing, but at this point any intel could help. Probably. Who knows. We just have to hope that our plan works, I suppose. ...End recording.”

The tape recorder clicks off as he sighs, running his hands through his hair. He feels like there’s something he’s missing, something obvious, right in front of his face. He barely looks up at the knock on the door, just says “come in” — although when Martin does so, his back straightens and his face smooths and he tries to look like he’s not totally at his wit’s end.

He doesn’t fool Martin, though, who frowns at the state of him. “Are you… Are you alright, Jon?”

He laughs hollowly. “Is Melanie? Is Tim? Basira? Daisy? — You?”

Martin deflates slightly. “Well, no. No, I — no, I guess not.”

“I’m — I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to —” To what? Sound like a jackass? If the shoe fits… Jon shakes his head as if resetting. “I’m not, but I will be, thank you. Sorry, are, uh. Are you ready to go?”

Martin looks at him sympathetically, and it burns. “Yeah, if you are.” There’s a weight to his words that Jon can’t quite decipher, but he looks down at the papers on his desk and sighs.

“Yes, I’m — Let me just get my coat and I’ll be ready.”

Martin hums in agreement, and after a moment the two of them head out into the cold. The silence between them is — well, it’s companionable. Not as awkward as Jon would have thought it would be, given… well, everything.

Luckily they both tend to work later than most, so the tube doesn’t have the typical rush of people desperate to get home from work. Or, Jon thinks (a little guiltily), perhaps that’s unlucky, because a high volume of people on the tube would mean that he and Martin would have to stand closer together, where maybe they would accidentally brush against each other before apologizing, and —

No, he’s not going to follow that thought. Whatever his own burgeoning feelings may be, he is absolutely not going to — to take advantage of Martin’s kindness like that. Because he _is_ kind. He’s the kindest man Jon has ever met, and to use that for some kind of — some kind of selfish closeness, or something, would be terrible.

He’s lost in thought, alternating between knowing the exact distance between the two of them and _not_ knowing anything more useful about the Unknowing. Neither one is particularly helpful or pleasant at the moment.

It takes him a second to realize that Martin has said his name at least twice, trying to get his attention, and it occurs to him that this is probably their stop. “Ah, yes, sorry — sorry, I was… thinking.”

Martin hums, looking slightly amused (although clearly trying to hide it) and gestures to the doors. “Come on, let’s get to my flat, and then we can have some tea and warm up a bit before we light the candles.” 

He doesn’t look particularly cold himself, so Jon is fairly certain the “warming up” comment was meant for him — because of course it hadn’t escaped Martin’s notice that Jon doesn’t really handle the cold all that well. He finds it hard to meet his gaze, so he just nods an affirmative and sticks his hands deeper into his pockets, desperate for warmth.

Luckily, it’s not much longer to Martin’s flat, but all the same Jon is shivering by the time they get there, face tucked into his scarf and pretending he doesn’t notice Martin giggling quietly about the way his glasses have fogged up. 

But at last! At last, they’re inside, and Jon is — well, frankly, he’s sort of… shocked. It’s not exactly what he’d pictured Martin’s flat looking like. Not that he’d ever pictured what Martin’s flat might look like, of course. 

It’s just sort of… plain, really. The sort of furniture and decor that could belong to anyone. He looks around, taking it all in. He can see little parts of Martin, now that he looks closer. It’s… comfortable. Homey, almost. A colorful jumper neatly folded over the arm of the sofa. A few books of poetry on the bookshelf, alongside what appears to be a book on… spiders. Jon stifles a shudder.

One thing that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed is the tidiness. It’s… honestly much tidier than Jon’s flat is. He tends to just leave things where it would make the most sense, even if it’s on the floor or on the back of the loveseat. He doesn’t really take much pride in his living space, and that’s pretty evident by… well, just about everything. (Including the fact that he rotates between wearing the same five button downs with the same three sweater vests, all in varying states of cleanliness depending on the part of the week. And, of course, the same two pairs of trousers.) But Martin seems different. There’s not even any cobwebs in the corners — and Martin even likes spiders. 

Or maybe Martin just tidied up because he knew that Jon would be coming over. There’s really no way to tell.

Martin gestures for him to sit down, and he does, shoes having been taken off and placed nicely beside the door. He’s still bundled in his coat and scarf, though. The warmth of Martin’s home hasn’t quite permeated his body well enough for him to shed those.

Martin puts the kettle on and disappears into a room that’s door had been slightly ajar. When he comes back, he’s carrying a large quilted blanket that he places on the sofa next to Jon. “If, er — if you would like to take your coat off, here’s a blanket so you don’t… you know. Freeze.”

“Oh, thank you, Martin. I… deeply appreciate it.” 

“Mm, yeah, don’t mention it.” And he’s back in the kitchen, finishing up the tea.

Once he’s finally free from his coat — which is now neatly hung up, scarf included, on a coat rack that he hadn’t noticed, but probably should have, considering Martin’s jacket is already hung — he sits, wrapped in the blanket, and just. Stares, awkwardly, around the room, until Martin hands him a mug.

More than desiring to drink it — although he knows it’s exactly to his liking — he wants to just _be_ there, wrapped up in the huge blanket, ice cold hands warming on the ceramic. And he does, for a moment, sitting there with his eyes closed, breathing in the warmth of Martin’s home.

Then he hears a quiet, muffled chuckle, and he opens his eyes to see what, exactly, Martin is laughing at.

Unfortunately, as his glasses have been fogged by the steam from his tea, he _can’t_ see. But he presumes that he is the subject of Martin’s amusement. “Martin, if you’ve invited me here simply to laugh at me —”

“No, no! Sorry, no, it’s just — you look… almost cute sitting there all bundled up with your tea and your fogged glasses. Sorry, I um, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

“Oh.” He’s not entirely sure he knows how he feels about that. Luckily Martin can’t tell that he’s slightly flushed. Cute… Interesting. He clears his throat. “Right, well. Hopefully I’ll be… warm, soon, and then we can, um, get on with it.”

He’s a bit apprehensive, if he’s honest. He doesn’t think that Martin will judge him in the slightest, but it’s been years since he’s actually spoken Hebrew, and he’s desperately hoping he still remembers the words. 

In the end, he needs not worry. As he and Martin stand in front of the Shabbos candles, lighting first one, and then the other, he just — knows. The words come to him as naturally as they had over a decade ago. Not the way he sometimes Knows things, with the help of The Eye, but in the way that he thinks, maybe, the words never left his heart. And he doesn’t know exactly what it is, if it’s the ambiance, the familiar, comforting words, or maybe just that he’s here with Martin — but he can feel a bit of the tension in his shoulders start to bleed away.

He takes a moment to glance between his fingers, to look up at Martin’s face, just barely shadowed by his own hands in the glow of the candlelight, and he feels that swelling in his chest again. _He’s beautiful_. How had Jon never seen it before? How had they worked together as long as they have and Jon never notice the way his lips curve up slightly when he speaks? He knows that underneath Martin’s closed eyelids are kind brown eyes, but his heart aches that he can’t see them in this light. 

He almost stumbles the words, but catches himself, and quickly looks down, heat rising on his cheeks. It’s more than seeing Martin in this new light, he thinks. It all just seems so… intimate. It’s just him, and Martin, standing in Martin’s flat. With candles. Speaking Hebrew. And, eventually, eating the dinner that Martin made for them.

He’s not entirely sure of most things in his life, but this? Talking over homemade challah, trading stories of his time in Hebrew school for tales of Martin’s conversion, making lighthearted jokes about their coworkers, and laughing… It feels like home. It feels like home in a way he’s not felt in a very long time.

There’s so much going on, all the time, but here, with Martin, he feels that he can almost slow down for a moment. Can almost forget the scars that litter his skin, the trauma they’ve endured. Can almost forget that everyone around him is at risk of injury, at risk of (more) trauma.

Almost. But he thinks that almost is enough. 

For tonight, anyway. 

(And maybe next Friday, as well. If Martin will have him.)

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS.
> 
> Also, the title refers to like, not the Creepy Supernatural kind of ritual but like the comforting day to day kind of ritual. If there are any errors feel free to let me know as I finished this at like. Three in the morning. (That includes errors wrt anything i've confused or gotten incorrect wrt judaism as I'm currently converting and am always always always okay with learning) anyway you can find me on tumblr at @trophygoth. cool.


End file.
